Читать книгу A Golden Argosy - Fred M. White - Страница 5

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Mr Carver of Bedford Row, in the county of Middlesex, was exercised in his mind; and the most annoying part of it was that he was so exercised at his own trouble and expense; that is to say, he was not elucidating some knotty legal point at the charge of a client, but he was speculating over one of the most extraordinary events that had ever happened to him in the whole course of his long and honorable career. The matter stood briefly thus: His client, Charles Morton, of Eastwood, Somersetshire, died on the 9th of April in the year of grace 1882. On the 1st of May, 1880, Mr Carver had made the gentleman's will, which left all his possessions, to the amount of some forty thousand pounds, to his niece, Eleanor Attewood. Six months later, Mr Morton's half-sister, Miss Wakefield, took up her residence at Eastwood, and from that time everything had changed. Eleanor had married the son of a clergyman in the neighborhood, and at the instigation of his half-sister, Mr Morton had disinherited his niece; and one year before he died, had made a fresh will, leaving everything to Miss Wakefield. Mr Carver, be it remarked, strongly objected to this injustice, seeing the baneful influence which had brought it about; and had he been able to find Eleanor, he hoped to alter the unjust state of things. But she disappeared with her husband, and left no trace behind; so the obnoxious will was proved.

Then came the most extraordinary part of the affair. With the exception of a few hundreds in the bank at Eastwood, for household purposes, not a single penny of Mr Morton's money could be found. All his property was mortgaged to a high amount; all his securities were disposed of, and not one penny could be traced. The mortgages on the property were properly drawn up by a highly respectable solicitor at Eastwood, the money advanced by a man of undoubted probity; and, further, the money had been paid over to Mr Morton one day early in the year 1882. Advertisements were inserted in the papers, in fact everything was done to trace the missing money, but in vain. All Miss Wakefield had for her pains and trouble was a poor sum of about eleven hundred pounds, so she had to retire again to her genteel poverty in a cheap London boarding-house.

This melancholy fact did not give Mr Carver any particular sorrow; he disliked that lady, and was especially glad that her deep cunning and underhand ways had frustrated themselves. In all probability, he thought, Mr Morton had in a fit of suspicion got hold of all his ready cash and securities, for the purpose of balking the fair lady whom he had made his heiress; but nevertheless the affair was puzzling, and Mr Carver hated to be puzzled.

Mr Carver stood at his office in Bedford Row, drumming his fingers on the grimy window-panes and softly whistling. Nothing was heard in the office but the scratch of the confidential clerk's quill pen as he scribbled out a draft for his employer's inspection.

'This is a very queer case, Bates, very queer,' said Mr Carver, addressing his clerk.

'Yes, sir,' replied Mr Bates, continuing the scratching. That gentleman possessed the instinct of always being able to divine what his chief was thinking of. Therefore, when Mr Bates said 'Yes, sir,' he knew that the Eastwood mystery had been alluded to.

'I'd most cheerfully give—let me see, what would I give? Well, I wouldn't mind paying down my cheque for'—

'One thousand pounds, sir. No, sir; I don't think you would.'

'You're a wonderful fellow, Bates,' said his admiring master. ''Pon my honor, Bates, that's the exact sum I was going to mention.'

'It is strange, sir,' said the imperturbable Bates, 'that you and I always think the same things. I suppose it is being with you so long. Now, if I was to think you would give me a partnership, perhaps you would think the same thing too.'

'Bates,' said Mr Carver earnestly, never smiling, as was his wont, at his clerk's quiet badinage, 'if we unravel this mystery, as I hope we may, I'll tell you what, Bates, don't be surprised if I give you a partnership.'

''Ah, sir, if we unravel it. Now, if we could only find'—

'Miss Eleanor. Just what I was thinking.'

At this moment a grimy clerk put his head in at the door.

'Please, sir, a young person of the name of Seaton.'

'It is Miss Eleanor, by Jove!' said Bates, actually excited.

'Wonderful!' said Mr Carver.

In a few seconds the lady was ushered into the presence of Mr Carver. She was tall and fair, with a style of beauty uncommon to the people of to-day. Clad from head to foot in plain black, hat, jacket, and dress cut with a simplicity almost severe, and relieved only by a white collar at the throat, there was something in her air and bearing which spoke of a culture and breeding not easily defined in words, but nevertheless unmistakable. It was a face and figure that men would look at and turn again to watch, even in the busy street. Her complexion was almost painfully perfect in its clear pallid whiteness, and the large dark lustrous eyes shone out from the marble face with dazzling brightness. She had a perfect abundance of real golden hair, looped up in a great knot behind; but the rebellious straying tresses fell over her broad low forehead like an aureole round the head of a saint.

'Don't you know me, Mr Carver?' she said at length.

'My dear Eleanor, my dear Eleanor, do sit down!' This was the person whom he had been longing for two years to see, and Mr Carver, cool as he was, was rather knocked off his balance for a moment.

'Poor child! Why, why didn't you come and see me before?'

'Pride, Mr Carver—pride,' she replied, with a painful air of assumed playfulness.

'But surely pride did not prevent your coming to see your old friend?'

'Indeed, it did, Mr Carver. You would not have me part with one of my few possessions?'

'Nonsense, nonsense!' said the lawyer, with assumed severity. 'Now, sit down there, and tell me everything you have done for the last two years.'

'It is soon told. When my uncle—poor deluded man—turned me, as he did, out of his house on account of my marriage, something had to be done; so we came to London. For two years my husband has been trying to earn a living by literature. Far better had he stayed in the country and taken to breaking stones or working in the fields. It is a bitter life, Mr Carver. The man who wants to achieve fortune that way must have a stout heart; he must be devoid of pride and callous to failure. If I had all the eloquence of a Dickens at my tongue's end, I could not sum up two years' degradation and bitter miserable poverty and disappointment better than in the few words, "Trying to live by literature,"—However, it is useless to struggle against it any longer. Mr Carver, sorely against my inclination, I have come to you to help us.'

'My dear child, you hurt me,' said Mr Carver huskily, 'you hurt me; you do indeed. For two years I have been searching for you everywhere. You have only to ask me, and you know anything I can I will do.'

'God bless you,' replied Eleanor, with the gathering tears thick in her eyes. 'I know you will. I knew that when I came here. How can I thank you?'

'Don't do anything of the sort; I don't want any thanks. But before you go, I will do something for you. Now, listen to me. Before your uncle died'—

'Died! Is he dead?'

'How stupid of me. I didn't know'—

Mr Carver stopped abruptly, and paused till the natural emotions called forth in the young lady's mind had had time to expend themselves. She then asked when the event had happened.

'Two years ago,' said Mr Carver. 'And now, tell me—since you last saw him, had you any word or communication from him in any shape or form? Any letter or message?'

Eleanor shook her head, half sadly, half scornfully.

'You don't seem to know Miss Wakefield,' she said. 'No message was likely to reach me, while she remained at Eastwood.'

'No; I suppose not. So you have heard nothing? Very good. Now, a most wonderful thing has happened. When your uncle died and his will came to be read, he had left everything to Miss Wakefield. No reason to tell you that, I suppose? Now comes the strangest part of the story. With the exception of a few hundreds in the local bank, not a penny can be found. All the property has been mortgaged to the uttermost farthing; all the stock is sold out; and, in fact, nothing is left but Eastwood, which, as you know, is a small place, and not worth much. We have been searching for two years, and not a trace can we find.'

'Perhaps Miss Wakefield is hiding the plunder away,' Eleanor suggested with some indifference.

'Impossible,' eagerly exclaimed Mr Carver—'impossible. What object could she have in doing so? The money was clearly left to her; and it is not likely that a woman so fond of show would deliberately choose to spend her life in a dingy lodging-house.'

'And Eastwood?'

'Is empty. It will not let, neither can we sell it.'

'So Miss Wakefield is no better off than she was four years ago!' Eleanor said calmly. 'Come, Mr Carver, that is good news, at any rate. It almost reconciles me to my position.'

'Nelly, I wish you would not speak so,' said Mr Carver seriously. 'It hurts me. You were not so hard at one time.'

'Forgive me, my dear old friend,' she replied simply. 'Only consider what a life we have been living for the past two years, and you will understand.'

'And your husband?'

'Killing himself,' she said; 'wearing out body and soul in one long struggle for existence. It hurts me to see him. Always hoping, and always working, always smiling and cheerful before me; and ever the best of men and husband. Dear friend, if you knew what he is to me, and saw him as I do day after day, literally wearing out, you would consider my hardness pardonable. I am rebellious, you know.''

'No, no,' said Mr Carver, a suspicious gleam behind his spectacles; 'I can understand it. The only thing I blame you for is that you did not come to me before. You know what a lonely old bachelor I am, and—how rich I am. It would have been a positive kindness of you to come and see me.—Now, listen. On Sunday, you and your husband must come and dine with me. You know the old Russell Square address?'

'God bless you for a true friend!' said Eleanor, her tears flowing freely now. 'We will come; and I may bring my little girl with me?'

'Eh, what?' replied the lawyer—'little girl? Of course, of course! Then we will talk over old times, and see what can be done to make those cheeks look a little like they used to do.—So you have got a little girl, have you? Dear, dear, how the time goes!—Now, tell me candidly, do you want any assistance—any, ah—that is—a little—in short, money?'

Eleanor colored to the roots of her hair, and was about to reply hastily, but said nothing.

'Yes, yes,' said Mr Carver rapidly.—'I think, Bates'—

But Mr Bates already had his hand on the cheque-book, and commenced to fill in the date. Mr Carver gave him a look of approbation, and flashed him a sign with his fingers signifying the amount.

'I suppose you have some friends?' he continued hastily, to cover Eleanor's confusion. 'It's a poor world that won't stand one good friend.'

'Yes, we have one,' replied Eleanor, her face lighting up with a tender glow—'a good friend. You have heard of Jasper Felix the author? He is far the best friend we have.'

'Heard of Felix! I should think I have. Read every one of his books. I am glad to hear of his befriending you. I knew the man who writes as he does must have a noble heart.'

'He has. What we should have done without his assistance, I shudder to contemplate. I honestly believe that not one of my husband's literary efforts would have been accepted, had it not been for him.'

'I can't help thinking, Nelly, that there is a providence in these things, and I feel that better days are in store for you. Anyway, it won't be my fault if it is not so. I have a presentiment that things will come out all right in the end, and I fancy that your uncle's fortune his hidden away somewhere; and if it is hidden away, it must be, I cannot help thinking, for your benefit.'

'Don't count upon it, Mr Carver,' said Eleanor calmly. 'I look upon the money as gone.'

'Nonsense!' said the gentleman cheerfully; 'while there is life there is hope. I begin to feel that I am playing a leading character in a romance; I do, indeed! Firstly, your uncle dies, and his fortune is lost; secondly, you disappear; and at the very moment I am longing—literally longing—to see you, you turn up. Now, all that remains is to find the hidden treasure, and to be happy ever afterwards, like the people in a fairy tale.'

'Always enthusiastic,' laughed Eleanor. 'All we have to do is to discover a mystic clue to a buried chest of diamonds, only we lack the clue.'

''Pon my word, my dear, do you know I really think you have hit it?' replied Mr Carver with great solemnity. 'Now, at the time you left Eastwood, your companion Margaret was in the house; and after your uncle's death, she disappeared. From a little hint Miss Wakefield dropped to me, your old friend was in the sick-room alone with your uncle the day he died.'

'Alone? and then disappeared,' said Eleanor, all trace of apathy gone, and her eyes shining with interest.

'Alone. Now, if we could only find Margaret Boulton'—

Eleanor rose from her seat, and approached Mr Carver slowly. Then she said calmly: 'There is no difficulty about that; she is at my house now. I found her only last night on Waterloo Bridge—in fact, I saved her.'

'Saved her? Didn't I say there was a providence in it? Saved her?'

'From suicide!'

A quarter of an hour later, Eleanor was standing outside Mr Carver's office, evidently seeking a companion. From the bright flush on her face and the sparkle in her eyes, hope—and a strong hope—had revived. She stood there, quite unconscious of the admiration of passers-by, sweeping the street in search of her quest. Presently the object she was seeking came in view. He was a tall man, of slight figure, with blue eyes deeply sunk in a face far from handsome, but full of intellectual power and great character; a heavy, carelessly trimmed moustache hid a sensitive mouth, but did not disguise a bright smile. That face and figure was a famous one in London, and people there turned in the busy street to watch Jasper Felix, and admire his rugged powerful face and gaunt figure. He came swinging down the street now with firm elastic step, and treated Eleanor to one of his brightest smiles.

'Did you think I had forgotten you?' he said. 'I have been prowling about Gray's Inn Road, for, sooth to say, the air of Bedford Row does not agree with me.'

'I hope I have not detained you,' said Eleanor timidly; 'I know how valuable your time is to you.'

'My dear child, don't mention it,' replied the great novelist lightly; 'my time has been well occupied. First, I have been watching a fight between two paviors. Do you know it is quite extraordinary how those powerful men can knock each other about without doing much harm. Then I have been having a long chat with an intellectual chimney-sweep—a clever man, but a great Radical. I have spent quite an enjoyable half-hour.'

'A half-hour! Have I been so long? Mr Felix, I am quite horrified at having taken up so much of your time.'

'Awful, isn't it,' he laughed lightly. 'Well, you won't detain me much longer, for here you are close at home.—Now, I will just run into Fleet Street on my own business, and try and sell this little paper of your husband's at the same time. I'll call in this afternoon; only, mind, you must look as happy as you do now.'

Jasper Felix made his way through a court into Holborn, and along that busy thoroughfare till he turned down Chancery Lane. Crossing the street by the famous Griffin, he disappeared in one of the interminable courts leading out of Samuel Johnson's favorite promenade, Fleet Street. The object of his journey was here. On the door-plate was the inscription, 'The Midas Magazine,' and beneath the legend, 'First Floor.'.. Ascending the dingy stair, he stopped opposite a door on which, in white letters, was written the word 'Editor.' At this door he knocked. Without pausing for a reply, he pushed open the door.

'How, de do, Simpson?' said Mr Felix, with a look of amusement in his blue eyes.

'Glad to see you, Felix,' said the editor of the Midas cordially. 'I thought you had forgotten us. I hope you have something for our journal in your pocket.'

'I have something in my pocket to show you,' answered Felix, 'and I think you will appreciate it.'

'Is it something of your own?' queried the man of letters.

'No, it is not; and, what is more, I doubt if I could write anything so good myself. I know when you have seen it, you will accept it.'

'Um! I don't know,' replied the editor dubiously. 'You see, I am simply inundated with amateur efforts. Of course, sometimes I get something good; but usually—Now, if the matter in discussion was a manuscript of your own—'

'Now, seriously, Simpson, what do you care for me or anything of mine? It is the name you want, not the work. You know well enough what sells magazines of the Midas type. It is not so much the literary matter as the name. The announcement that the next month's Midas will contain the opening chapters of a new serial by someone with a name, is quite sufficient to increase your circulation by hundreds.'

''Pon my honor, you're very candid,' rejoined Mr Simpson. 'But what is this wonderful production you have?'

'Well, I'll leave it with you. You need not trouble to read it, because, if you don't take it, I know who will.'

'What do you want for this triumph of genius?'

'Well, in a word, ten pounds. Take it or leave it.'

'If you say it is worth it, I suppose I must oblige you.'

'That is a good way of putting it; and it will oblige me. But mark me—this man will some day confer favors by writing for you, instead of, as you regard it at present, favoring him.'

The proprietor of the Midas sighed gently. The idea of paying over ten pounds to an unknown contributor was not nice; but the fact of offending Felix was worse.

'If,' said he, harping on the old string, and shaking his head with a gentle deprecating motion—'if it was one of yours now'—

'What confounded nonsense you talk!' exclaimed Felix impatiently.

'Don't get wild, Felix,' replied Mr Simpson soothingly. 'I will take your protege's offering, to oblige you.'

'But I don't want you to oblige me. I want you to accept—and pay for—an article good enough for anything. It is a fair transaction; and if there is any favor about it, then it certainly is not on your side.'

Mr Simpson showed his white teeth in a dazzling smile. 'Well, Felix, I do admire your assurance,' he said softly. 'I never heard the matter put in that light before. My contributors, as a rule, don't point their manuscript at my head metaphorically, and demand speedy insertion and prompt pay.—Do you want a cheque for this manuscript now?'

'Yes, you may as well give me the cash now.'

Mr Simpson drew a cheque for the desired amount, and passed it over to Felix, who folded the pink slip, and placed it in his pocket; whereupon the conversation drifted into other channels.